


brother, dead brother

by humanveil



Series: The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Azkaban, Gen, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-02 10:33:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11507589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Sirius starts to see him in his sleep.





	brother, dead brother

_Brother, dead brother,_  
_who speaks to him in dreams._  
_These are a few things worth saying._

__—_ Richard Siken._

 

*******

_Pale skin, like his own. Black hair, like his own. Grey eyes, like his own. A family resemblance. Too obvious to ignore, too noticeable, too familiar, too—_

Sirius jolts awake, chest heaving. He can’t breathe. His chest rises and falls and it _hurts_ but he still can’t breathe. He gasps, pants, chokes. His throat restricts, his body thrashes, his finger clench, unclench, clench again.

_There’s no mistaking it._

Azkaban is everything they said it would be. Cold, dark, deadly. _Enough to make a man mad._

Not him, he’d thought. And, oh. How wrong he’d been.

Third night in a row. Tenth time in total. Spanning: three months. He’s only been here six.

_Works quickly, then._

Sirius rolls off the bed – _can he call it a bed?_ it's little more than stone and rag – and kneels against the freezing floor. His palms are planted face down, nails brushing the surface. He lowers his face, lets the cold floor cool his forehead. Another headache, almost a migraine. He's finally getting used to them, now.

About bloody time, he thinks.

His breathing slows, finally. Back to a normal pace. Something manageable. Sirius doesn’t move off the ground. There’s comfort to be found, there. Curled as he is.

Or, maybe there isn’t. Maybe he’s just tricked himself into thinking there is. It’s hard to tell, really. Hard to tell anything, these days.

He doesn’t know why it keeps happening. Doesn't know what the point is, or if there’s a point at all. Can’t tell if it's the dementors or his own mind – _is there a difference anymore?_ – but he supposes it doesn’t matter either way.

_Does anything?_

He sits up abruptly; back to the wall, hands planed on his knees, nails digging into cloth and skin. He doesn’t want to think about it, but. That’s not an option, is it? Not here.

_Regret._

It’s a familiar sensation. Embedded bone deep. Bit like a scar, he thinks. Like the long pink line that runs along his ribcage – Moony, first play fight between the wolf and Padfoot, Remus had apologised for three da— _don’t think about Remus._

He shakes his head. Violently. Like a dog trying to dry itself. Like a man trying to forget memories.

_Futile._

Memories are all he knows, in here. And not the good ones. The bad ones, the ones that used to wake up in the middle of the night, tears streaming down his face. The ones he’d spend so long trying to forget. The ones he’d convinced himself he _had_ forgotten. The ones that everyone seems hell-bent on reminding him of.

He’s heard the others talk. They like doing that. Like shouting between cells, like claiming the Dark Lord will return. That he’ll get them out and this time they'll win. Sirius blocks it out – tries to, at least – but sometimes... sometimes it pays to listen.

He’s learnt a few things. About what the other side had been doing, about plans and people and, more importantly, betrayals. He’d been surprised to hear a few of the names, had even wanted to ask what had happened, but the next name listed had been Regulus’ and, well.

Third night in a row. Tenth time in total. Spanning: three months.

It’s driving him mad.

*

_Regulus looks as he always does. Black hair is cut short, the strands curling at the nape of his neck, brushing the ironed collar of his white dress shirt. His hands are folded in his lap, a dark robe hanging around his feet, a silver chain dangling around his neck, glistening in the moonlight. His eyes are the same blue-grey as Sirius’, but there is none of the light that used to be in Sirius’, none of the laughter. There is only a vacant stare, like he’s not really there at all._

_He’s sat on the only chair in Sirius’ cell, his body framed in the dim light that filters in through the high window. He eyes the small room, a grimace on his face. “Not very nice here, is it?”_

_Sirius doesn’t answer._

_“You never liked the cold.”_

_Sirius shuts his eyes, eyelashes fluttering across his cheeks. He still doesn’t answer._

_“Did you do it, then?”_

_A choked noise, something between a laugh and a sob. “No.”_

_“Didn’t think so.”_

*

When Sirius wakes, his cheeks are damp.

He refuses to open his eyes.

*

__“_ I was scared, you know.”_

_Regulus is back in his seat, still wearing the same robe. Still looking like he always does._

_“I didn’t know how to get out.”_

_Sirius keeps his eyes shut, like he’s terrified of what will happen if he opens them._

_“It wasn’t what they said it would be.”_

_“Nothing ever is,” Sirius murmurs. He doesn’t know when he started talking back. “Not the good things, anyway.”_

_Regulus tilts his head, lips pursed like he’s considering the answer. “Not everything’s bad,” he says eventually._

_“The things that last are,” Sirius tells him, and then turns on his side, face to the wall and thin blanket pulled to his chin._

*

 _Guilt._ It’s not something Sirius is very familiar with.

He’s not even sure if he can call it guilt. It feels more like a mind game. Like a trick he’s playing on himself.

He snorts as a guard pushes a tray of food through his cell.

Enough to make a man mad, indeed.

*

_“Did you ever miss me?”_

_Sirius breathes quietly, eyes fixed on his cell’s ceiling. There’s a crack in the stone, like it was hit with something, once. “Yes.”_

_He says it after a long pause, his voice little more than a breath. Another stretch of silence follows, but when he looks, Regulus is smiling._

*

Sirius has lost count of how many times it’s happened.

He no longer pretends it isn’t happening, no longer acts as if Regulus isn’t there. It’s something he’s accepted as fact; as a part of his stay in Azkaban.

There are times where he’s not even sure if he’s sleeping, if it’s a hallucination or a dream, but he supposes it doesn’t make much of a difference anyway.

*

_“Do you want me to say sorry?”_

_It’s the first time he’s initiated their conversation. He’s unsure what compels him to say it, but he’d been hit with an overwhelming need to ask, and so he does. He doesn’t look at Regulus when he says the words, just keeps staring at the crack in the ceiling, his hands held behind his head, matted strands of dark hair falling over his forehead._

_There is a contemplative silence, a pause where all Sirius can hear is his brother’s steady breathing and the absent scratch of a heel against stone._

_And then, “Only if you mean it.”_

*

Between the dreams and reality, Sirius thinks he prefers the dreams.

It’s only the two of them, there. There are no guards, no dementors, no death eaters. He cannot hear his fellow inmates, cannot hear the banging, the crying, the deranged screaming.

There is only the gentle splash of the surrounding sea, only the brush of fabric against stone as Regulus shifts in his seat. Only their breathing mixed together; synchronised and shallow, but still there. Only their voices, similar in tone.

Only _them;_ as they were always meant to be.

*

_“Sorry.”_

_There’s no response, but there is a small tilt of a mouth; a barely-there hint of a smile._

_Sirius takes it as a sign of forgiveness._

*

Regulus stops visiting.

Sirius can’t tell if he misses him or not.


End file.
